


Oh no (Up in smoke)

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [17]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Charades, Drug trafficking, Drugs, Fire, Gen, Hostel (movie), Murder, Targeted killing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 04:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "Oh, no, we up in smoke, and I can't feel my face no more!"Danny & Funny Man, Up In Smoke.Charades is good for the brain.





	Oh no (Up in smoke)

**Author's Note:**

> This snuff film stars:  
> Victim: anyone you want it to be. The only requirements are that they have most of their teeth and their tongue, both hands and both knees. Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to by 'it'.  
> Danny: the first man  
> Dylan (Funny Man): the second man  
> Jay (J-Dog) plus a mention of someone else helping him.
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Danny, Dylan or Jay have done, or have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.

Victim shivered. Its hands were pressed to the side of the cooler, wrists zip-tied together, knuckled bloodied with knocking. It groaned and blew on its fingers. The cold air hurt its lips.

The cooler opened. A man looked it over and his eyes widened. He was dressed in one of Victim’s fake catering tunics and fedora.

“Hey, Dyl, we got a body in here!” he said.

Someone skittered over, and a second, taller man appeared next to his friend in a matching tunic, still tying his hair back.

“That ain’t a body,” the second man said, “We got breathing there. We’ll come back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” the first man said.

“Peas!” Victim cried.

The cooler lid dropped shut. Victim slumped against the floor, choking sobs from an emptied mouth.

The truck shuddered, the doors opened, and crates slid. A woman gushed. She sounded middle-aged, tired but determined to be preppy. One of the men talked with her, and their voices seemed to float around the van, as muffled as they were.

“Buffet order…” the man chattered, “Cancelled… shame to waste… use… don’t freeze the pork… waste… by date… thank you… bacon sandwiches all ‘round!”

The doors slammed again. The truck shuddered, growled, and started to move. The radio blasted, flicked through channels, and settled on a station full of guitar solos.

The men sang along as and when they felt like it. Whichever was behind the wheel was a better driver than the pair who had shoved Victim in the cooler. Victim didn’t slide about as much in its cooler.

The truck stopped. Doors slammed, the truck shook, something banged, and the cooler lid was thrown open. The second man peered in, dark hair loosened and curling around his neck and face.

“You still with us?” he asked.

“Peas!” Victim cried, “Dommer me!”

“Yeah, still with us,” the second man said. He reached into the cooler and dragged Victim out with a grunt.

Victim gibbered in the sudden warmth. Blood was clinging to its clothes, a long red spurt spat down its front, blossoms around drilled holes in its knees. Flaky blisters clung to its face.

The first man pulled his tunic off, cooing at Victim. “You must be so cold! Jay didn’t even tell us you were there!”

Victim whined. The first man wrapped his tunic around Victim’s shoulders. Victim snuggled into the warm fabric. The first man tucked the tunic snug around Victim and rubbed at its arms. The second man closed the cooler Victim had been in and sat on the one opposite, lighting himself a cigarette.

“Looks like Jay had fun with this guy,” the second guy said, “Y’know? Silver grill? Fang tat’ on his neck? Ripped your teeth out?”

Victim whimpered. Its gums burned, a phantom pain twisting where its teeth should be. The stub of tongue tried to lick at them, wriggling in its mouth like it was trying to escape.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the second man said.

“Ignore him,” the first man said, “I’m Danny, this asshole is Dylan. We’re gonna set you on fire!”

Victim yelped and tried to pull away from him. Pain flared in its thighs and fresh blood dripped. Below its knees was numb and immobile, feeling lost in each leg like Jay’s drill had flipped a switch behind its kneecaps.

“Hey, hey,” Dylan said, “Don’t be like that! Tell us where the stash is and we’ll let you live a little longer.”

Victim blinked at him.

“Jay told us everything you told him,” Dylan said, “And we ain’t gotta torture it outta him. We know the deliveries are a cover-up.”

“A pretty clever one, actually,” Danny said. His thumb stroked across Victim’s face, tingling and burning.

“So where do you hide it?” Dylan said, “It ain’t **in** the meat, right?”

Victim shook its head.

“So, where? The cabin?”

Victim shook its head.

“Under the truck?”

Victim shook its head. It nodded towards Dylan with awkward jerks.

Dylan patted the wall. “In here?”

Victim shook its head and flapped a hand at the cooler Dylan was sat on.

“Nah, we emptied them,” Dylan said.

“Gave it to the soup kitchen,” Danny said.

Victim turned its hand over and flapped upwards.

“It’s under the cooler?” Danny said.

Victim nodded.

Dylan stood and tugged on the cooler. The lock clicked, the hinge squeaked, and the cooler lifter a couple of inches. Dylan passed Danny his cigarette and lifted the cooler out completely.

Danny gave a low whistle. Dylan put the cooler down and reached into the space. He pulled out what looked like a brick covered in plastic. The plastic crackled as Dylan unravelled it. The brick inside was white and fell apart in a cloud of powder as Dylan touched it.

“That’s real gritty,” Dylan said, and rubbed his powdered fingers together.

“What’d you mean?” Danny said.

“It’s like sand. Not even beach sand, like building sand. That’d rip your sinuses to shreds.

Danny searched through the bricks. “We’re leaving it here then?”

“Yeah, leave it. It ain’t worth stealing. Don’t know why we got our hopes up, really.”

Victim wriggled. The door was just a little ajar, a crack of light glinting through. Victim dragged along with numb hands. The friction burned in its hollowed knees. There was a faint smell of gasoline floating on the air.

Danny stood, stepped, and closed the door. Victim’s fingers were caught snug in the door frame. The numbness fled like a startled deer, leaving a throbbing pain across Victim’s knuckles.

Victim yelled and pulled. Its fingers were caught firm, its pulls only serving to make its knuckles grind into its bones. Victim cried and fell still.

A lighter clicked behind it. One of the men sighed, the lighter clicked again, and the other man sighed. Victim wriggled onto its side. The men were sat by the cooler, smoking roll-ups.

“This ain’t your shit,” Dylan said, and waved his roll-up at Victim, “This is our shit. Good shit.”

Dan dipped his fingers in the cocaine and rubbed it. “I get what you mean, actually.”

“Yeah. That shit’ll fuck you up, and not even in the good way.”

Danny wiped his hand on his leg and took a drag of his roll-up. The smoke smelt sweet and was slowly starting to fill the little van, barely masking the smell of gasoline.

Victim was laid the full length of the van, a little hunched in to fit, its feet pressed into the back of the front passenger seat. Dylan was leant on the removed cooler, legs kicked up on the wall opposite. His foot tapped a beat.

Dylan dropped a foot down, straight on the side of Victim’s knee. Victim howled as pain jolted up its side.

“Shit, man,” Dylan said, “What’d Jay do to you?”

Victim gibbered and cried.

“Yeah, I can see he took your teeth out,” Dylan said, “What’d he do to your knees?”

“And your face?” Danny said.

Victim sobbed into its arm. Dylan kicked at it again, and nudged Danny out of the way to pull on Victim’s shirt. Victim screamed, having to twist its arm across its face to avoid pulling on its trapped fingers.

Danny guffawed. “Hold on.” He flopped over and pulled on the door handle.

Victim whipped its hands into its chest as the latch gave. It trembled and gibbered, wrapping its good hand around the pulsing fingers like a fleshy shield.

Dylan pulled on Victim’s shirt again and pulled it upright. Victim whimpered at him, curling in on itself to get away from him. Danny tucked the tunic back around Victim and rubbed its shoulder.

“What happened?” Dylan asked again, and patted Victim’s knee.

Victim yelped at the flash of pain up its thigh. Its feet twitched like they felt the flash too.

“Don’t think we’re gonna get much of a story here,” Danny said.

Dylan giggled. He gnashed his teeth at Victim. His teeth were short, gold grill clinging to his top canines, not as sharp as Jay’s silver fangs and almost dull in the dim light.

Victim took a deep breath. It hovered its good hand above its knee, squeezed an imaginary trigger and lowered its hand, pulling away just before it touched its kneecap. Its crushed hand moved with its counterpart, the knuckles deep red, the index and middle fingers jutted out at an angle, uncurling.

Dylan blinked at him. “ **What**?”

Danny giggled. Smoke choked from his mouth with the noise. The air was starting to feel warm and heavy.

Victim repeated the motion. “Durrrr,” it purred, “Durrrr.”

Danny laughed harder.

“A drill?” Dylan said.

Victim pointed at him and nodded. Dylan cheered.

“How the fuck did you get that from ‘Durrrr’?” Danny said.

“I watched Hostel with Jay a coupla weeks back,” Dylan said, “That was one of the things the creepy doctor did.”

“I ain’t seen that in ages. All I remember is that girl with the blowtorch,” Danny turned to Victim and gestured to ITS face, “Is that what happened? He used a blowtorch on you?”

“Nah, man, there’d be a path,” Dylan said. He dragged Victim closer, gripping it by the chin and tilting its face about, studying it. Smoke curled slow from his mouth. “Like, there’d be thicker blisters directly where the torch had been. But it’s fairly even-spread. Worse on the nose and cheeks, but that might be more sensitive skin than anything else.”

He gestured as he spoke, fingers hovering barely an inch from Victim’s skin. His lit roll-up sat between his knuckles like it had grown there. Victim watched the fingers, whimpering as they came a little too close to its nose.

Danny hummed. “So, what happened?”

“I dunno, man,” Dylan said, “Ask Jay.”

“I thought you were Sherlock-ing it out?”

“Nah, I ain’t that good.”

Danny groaned.

Victim leant back out of Dylan’s weak grip. It pulled the tunic up over its face, dropped it, and waved at his face.

Danny and Dylan stared.

Victim repeated the motions, adding a strangled cry with the wave.

“Nah, you lost us,” Dylan said.

Victim sighed. It reached for Dylan, slow and cautious. When Dylan didn’t pull away, Victim took the collar of his tunic and raised it up over his face. Dylan held his breath as the cheap, half-plastic fabric covered his nose and mouth.

Victim flapped its hands at Dylan. “Pssss,” it hissed, “Pssss.”

Danny blinked. “He pissed on you?”

Victim slumped in defeat.

Dylan sighed. Smoke fizzed through the fabric like a ghost on the run. His collar dropped back down and he took another drag.

Victim flapped its hands at Dylan. “Pssss! Aaahhh!”

“You were water-boarded?”

Victim grinned and nodded.

“What the fuck?” Danny said, “With what? Battery acid?”

Victim pinched its fingers in front of its mouth and tilted them back.

“Tea?” Danny said.

“Boiling water?” Dylan said.

Victim nodded again.

“How are you getting these?” Danny said.

“How are you **not**?” Dylan said.

Victim sighed and leant on the wall.

Danny stroked a hand over Victim’s head. “You want some?” he said, and held the roll-up out to Victim, “Just to try some good shit?”

Victim lowered its head and took a cautious drag. Danny gave to its head another pat.

“You ever taken this shit?” Dylan waved a wrapped brick at Victim.

Victim shook its head.

“You know what’s in it?”

Victim shook its head.

“You know what it’s done?”

Victim shook its head.

“You know who you’re selling to?”

Victim nodded.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Ho-mess.”

“Yeah. Like?”

Victim blinked at him. Dylan stared back at it.

“Ho-mess?” Victim said again.

“Yeah?” Dylan said, “And who’s homeless?”

Victim blinked and tried to frown. The pull on its skin sent a hot flash across its face, and it hissed in pain.

“We’re talking veterans,” Danny said, “We’re talking kids kicked out with no place else to go. We’re talking unlucky bastards who couldn’t quite make their rent. Their hours got cut a little too hard. Or had a car problem. Or a coupla sick days. Or trusted the wrong asshole to pay ‘em back. Or just got real unlucky. And then your guys come along, promise ‘em a few hours relief, take the last of their money and leave ‘em with this shit. Some fucking white sand to die on.”

“There’s been thirty deaths from this shit since Christmas,” Dylan said, His roll-up had almost burnt down to his skin. “And we know you’re just the delivery kid. We know you don’t sell it. But you were the next step in finding who’s running this shit. And you gotta understand, we can’t have you running to the cops.”

“Not that they’ve done much about this shit in the first place,” Danny flicked at the white powder.

“Hey. I’m almost done, you done?”

“Yeah.”

Danny shuffled down the van, opened the door and pulled himself out into the sunshine. Past him was an almost empty concrete car park, only one car sitting a few bays away. Danny stretched, and Dylan climbed out after him.

“Look,” he said, “It’s nothing personal. Just; no witnesses, ya feel?”

Victim gibbered at him.

“Nah, we had fun. Nice game of charades, ain’t played in a while. Good to keep the brain going. Anyway, it was nice meeting you.”

Danny pushed in front of Dylan to wrap Victim in a quick hug. He pulled away, his footsteps splashing, and Dylan hung his tunic over Victim’s face. The doors slammed.

The sweet smoke burnt out into something heavier, like a cheap, unscented candle. Something orange flickered.

Victim pulled the tunic off of its face, into a heap in its lap. The flame engulfed the fabric and clung to Victim’s trousers as it flinched away.

Victim screamed and slapped at the flames. They spread faster than Victim could hit. An engine roared outside. Victim dove for the door, grabbed the door and threw it open.

The sunlight burned. The smell of gasoline was heavy and putrid. Victim fell straight to the ground. A puddle had formed under the van.

Dylan hung out the passenger side of the car as the gasoline puddle ignited, sending the little van all of two feet into the air. It landed in almost the same place, and the flames climbed the sides, melting off the paint and fake logo. Victim laid, half-under the van, scream swallowed in the smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> Victim translation glossary:  
> "Peas!": "Please!"  
> "Dommer me!": "Don't hurt me!"  
> "Durrrr!": the sound of a drill  
> "Pssss!": sound of boiling water being thrown  
> "Ho-mess,": "Homeless [people]"
> 
> Pork and bacon don't freeze great. Generally, avoid anything that has a large sheet or lump of fat on it. Game (birds), mince and sausage usually freeze it. If you're not sure, check the packaging. In case you gotta hoard food for any reason.  
> The van was used to ferry drugs, obviously. The meat delivery cover was specifically to bluff any cops that any sniffer dogs were actually signalling on the meat there, not any drugs.  
> Danny felt bad about just throwing the meat out and wasting it, and Dylan suggested donating it to the soup kitchen.  
> The bricks were only about 30% coke, the rest made up from grit and chit.  
> I'm not sure what coke feels like, I'm a good Christian girl, but I'm assuming good coke wouldn't be gritty.  
> Hostel is pretty decent, if slow-starting, horror/gore movie that became a franchise of its own. I've only actually seen the first one, but the sequels are on my list with about every other film ever.  
> I originally gave Victim a name and was going to have him cannibalising the homeless people he od'ed, but I figured I was getting a little too into a throwaway character so I stripped it back to the usual Victim. Besides, we just had named characters.
> 
> And with that, go watch a movie. Animated, musical, superheroes, shitty comedy; whatever makes you happy.


End file.
